


Davy Jones' Locker

by Sealie



Category: due South
Genre: Challenge Response, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-03-31
Updated: 1999-03-31
Packaged: 2018-11-11 04:48:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11141322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sealie/pseuds/Sealie
Summary: 'Davy Jones' Locker' is a continuation of a theme I began in 'Rabbit'. It would probably help if you've read 'Rabbit' and 'Scrimshaw'





	Davy Jones' Locker

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know that these due South fics are coded incorrectly. Yes, I know that there are rampant Briticisms. Yes, I know that the spelling is very flawed in places. Yes, I know that the grammar is _wrong_. 
> 
> If you read the fic, I don’t need you to tell me these things. 
> 
> I was a very little, new fanfic writing/posting fan when I wrote these stories. I hadn’t learned some of the methods of managing my dyslexia, which I use everyday today with varying degrees of success. I hadn’t learned a lot of things.
> 
> I tried several times over the years to get the due South archivist to delete them to no avail. When I saw them uploaded to Ao3 -- after sitting staring in abject horror at the screen -- I also considered claiming and deleting them myself, but they are part of my history, even though they generally only received nasty comments.
> 
> I’m leaving them here for the time being. Remember, we were all new and inexperienced at some point.

Davy Jones' Locker 

 

Standard disclaimer _et cetera et cetera_ (yawn :^0).  
**Rating: PG.**  
'Davy Jones' Locker' is a continuation of a theme I began in 'Rabbit'.  
I didn't intend to write sequels but... sometimes I wonder who exactly  
is doing the writing. Unlike my other stories (which I try to write  
so they stand alone) it would probably help if you've read 'Rabbit' and  
'Scrimshaw' both of which are on Seah's wonderful Archive.  
Additional  
warning: it's got a sad bit.  


# Davy Jones' Locker

.  
By Sealie Scott  


"Stomp, stomp, stomp." Benton grinned at the footsteps he was leaving in the fresh snow. The new wellies that Grandmother had bought for him left pristine footprints along the now white covered dirt track.  
Grandmother had left him on the doorsteps of the pre-fabricated school building in the morning saying that Grandfather Matthew would pick him up at the end of the day. After lessons had finished, Benton had waited patiently on the school house stoop in the rapidly falling twilight. Then when even the big kids had left, he had decided, practically, to retrace his footsteps back to his grandparent's house.  
Casa Fraser was behind the bend in the road, miles away to short little legs.  
Benton caught a giant snowflake on his mitten and tasted it delightedly. He liked the snow. A bigger, fatter snowflake joined the melting snowflake. The clouds above his head were pregnant. Another snowflake fell. The slate grey horizon was joining with the grey sky. It looked as if a cloud was rolling across the land towards him. Innocently, Benton watched the phenomenon as the snow fell. Happily, he trudged forwards. He had played in the back yard and by the stream but he hadn't really explored his new world in the few short months since he had met his grandparents.  
He realised that his toes were getting cold and then he stubbed his toe on a rock. Truculently, Benton scowled at the snow swirling around him. He couldn't see; that was why he'd hurt his foot. The snow was so opaque he thought he could almost cut it with a knife (if his Grandmother would have let him play with Great-grandfather's).  
Benton sucked on his damp mitten - he couldn't see the track any more or the house. He had had enough of the snow, he wanted to go home.  
"Ganggan!" Benton hollered for his Great-grandfather - he would make it all right. It was cold and the snow was getting in his eyes.  
"Ganggan!" More of a wail.  
Benton pulled up his hood and kicked at the stone. He considered his options, just as he knew a mountie would. Unfortunately, he didn't know what his Daddy would do.  
_What would Ganggan do?_ The mud track had been churned up by the tractors and trucks during the autumn rains. The first frost of winter had frozen the track as hard as iron. The ruts of the tyre tracks were forced a good foot into the track. Doggedly, Benton slogged along the tyre trail. He didn't want to cry; his Daddy told him never to cry.  
"Ganggan?" He couldn't stop one tear rolling down his cheek.  
"You shouldn't be out here."  
Benton sniffed loudly as he smacked into the enormous furry monster standing in front of him. He squeaked once and dove into the snow drift. Benton floundered desperately away, before the monster could catch him and gobble him up in a big hungry belly. A clawed hand caught him by the back of the neck and hauled him out of the snow. Rigid with terror, Benton screamed into the face surrounded by fur.  
Brown eyes in a brown face blinked back him, surprised.  
"Hello," the monster said evenly.  
Benton could only whimper, badly remembered lessons told him not to talk to strangers. This monster was, most definitely, a stranger.  
"I'm not going to eat you." The monster was laughing at him.  
Suddenly he was suspended by one paw. The monster was impossibly strong. Then the monster pulled open his furry chest showing a mundane woolly jumper beneath the fur parka. Before Benton could protest furry arms deposited him inside the parka and pulled him close. The monster man trudged easily through the white nothingness. All Benton could see were the patterns knitted into the jumper. It was nice and warm - he didn't realise how cold he had become slogging through the snow.  
Muffled footsteps became hollow, clanking footsteps. Something creaked then there was a wooden rap and another creak.  
"David!" It was his grandmother's voice. "Did you find him?"  
"Is he hurt?" Another voice asked querulously.  
The parka opened and he tumbled into his Grandmother's arms. Before it could become a hug he had been planted on the couch and his grandmother was stripping him out of his wet clothes. Diligently his fingers and toes were checked.  
"No, frostbite." David reported.  
"Thank God." Great-grandfather said.  
"When Matthew came in from the study and asked where Benton was, my heart jumped into my mouth." Grandmother said. "He was writing his sermon and he forgot and I don't know how - but he forgot."  


"Get on that telephone thing - Matthew headed to the church in case Benton went looking for him there." Great- grandfather said sensibly. "Someone in town will know where Matt is."  
Grandmother nodded and went into the kitchen. Her feet clattered angrily against the wooden floor. Benton sighed loudly, he wasn't too sure what he had done wrong but he felt as if he was in trouble. The old couch sagged as Great-grandfather sat next to him. Tiredly, Benton crawled onto the familiar lap and snuggled in searching for warmth and comfort. A rough blanket was draped over him. And Great-grandfather enveloped him in a big hug.  
"He's been out there for hours."  
Great-grandfather was nice and warm.  
"He was almost home - he was following the tracks - he's a bright little boy."  
Around a massive yawn, Benton looked up at the man, he was taking off the scary coat and hanging it up. He didn't know the monster man but grandmother seemed to know him. Benton stroked his Great-grandfather's stubbly cheek and the old man smiled down at him.  
"Clever boy. You were almost home?" he whispered.  
"Uh huh." Benton let another yawn escape.  
"Next time Matthew forgets to pick you up - tell the teacher. Okay?"  
Benton nodded obediently.  
  
~*~  


Benton Fraser Snr willed his painfully erratic heartbeat to return to normal. He had his beloved great-grandson nestled in his arms, his heart could now slow down to something like a steady rhythm. Benton was a chilled little ball and was leaching the heat from his arthritic bones but the old man held him tight. Tired lashes were falling over sleepy blue eyes. Dropping a kiss on his grandson's curling damp hair, Ben Snr realised that David was standing over him. Grace had re-entered with a tea set. The Inuit native was proffering a steaming cup of tea. The old man accepted the cup with a grateful nod - speaking at many levels.  
"Best put some whiskey in there." Grace, the boy's grandmother, interjected.  
"No," David's response was immediate. "It does no good and may do bad."  
Grace's hackles rose and David's expression was implacable. Ben Snr left them to it. Holding the cup of tea to Benton's lips drew the boy from his near doze. He sipped at the cup and then grimaced.  
"Yuck."  
"Drink it down." Grace ordered, her near argument with her grandson's rescuer forgotten.  
"You need to drink something warm." The old man explained.  
"Hot chocolate?" Benton asked hopefully.  
"If you drink the tea." Great-grandfather bargained.  
His face twisted against the tartness the child sipped at the hot black tea. He was trying very hard.  
"It's not nice." Benton whinged. The tea was in imminent danger of being spat back up judging from his expression.  
"Ssssh," the old man soothed, "we'll get you some Hot Chocolate."  
Benton smiled happily.  
"I think he should drink the tea." Grace said flatly  
"Indulge him - just this once, dear?" The old man inveigled.  
Grace considered his words and then nodded tersely. Warming the child was more important than rules at this point in time. A slight smile crossed David's face as he watched the exchange. Covering his eavesdropping he turned to stoke the fire into a roaring mass of coal and peat.  
"With a marshmallow?" Benton wheedled.  
Grace's back stiffened but she continued into the kitchen. Through the open doorway, the Great-grandfather could see her reaching up to the top shelf and the cookie tin. The old man held back a chuckle, the little boy didn't miss a trick.  
"Cold." Benton said miserably and burrowed further into the old man's lap.  
David came up and smiled his inscrutable smile. His friend had pulled an ancient lumpy armchair close to the roaring fire. David stood over them his arms outstretched. Ben Snr relinquished his burden. He was incapable of carrying his grandson. His bones quite simply wouldn't take the strain. David said nothing, no excuses, no explanations, no reasoning, he simply picked up the child. Benton realised instantly who held him and froze like a faerie stock. The burly Inuit held him easily. Tottering over to the rocking chair, the old man wondered at the child's reaction. David was wrapping Benton in the blanket, with deft movements, like a baby in a papoose. When Benton was deposited back onto his lap the child turned his face into his Great-grandfather's chest and whimpered.  
"What's the matter, son?" The old man whispered.  
"Monster man." Benton said indistinctly.  
"I gave him quite a fright when I found him in the snow." David said, unoffended, his ears as sharp as a fox's.  
"He's just a man like every one else." Ben Snr gently turned his grandson's head to look at his rescuer.  
The Inuit native held out his arms and spun slowly in a circle displaying his beautifully knitted jumper and padded leggings.  
"See: two arms; two legs," Great-grandfather said gently.  
Benton didn't appear to be convinced. He eyed the dripping parka hanging on the back of the door as if it was going to jump up and attack him.  
David followed his gaze. "Bear," he said with an evil smile, "trapped it myself."  


Benton gave a little scared meep but then his eyes gleamed as his grandmother returned with a steaming mug of cocoa with, amazingly, a melting gooey marshmallow on top. The prospect that they were sharing the living room with a monster was forgotten in the face of the hot chocolate. The old man once again held a warm drink to pouting lips. With a great deal of relish, Benton slurped at the treat. Half way down the mug, after an almighty yawn, he simply sagged. Awake one moment; fast asleep the next. The milky drink had had the required effect. Ben Snr took a mouthful of the chocolate - it was lightly laced with brandy - and tasted damn good. He decided not to say anything to the Inuit Shaman.  
"He was very lucky." David said into the silence as they all watched Benton sleeping. "It's been a long time since I've seen a storm come down like that. If he'd panicked and ran off the track we'd be finding him during spring thaw."  
The old man clutched the sleeping child closer. He was more precious than gold. Visions assailed him, once again causing his heart to race.  
"Father, I'll put Benton to bed now."  
Reluctantly, the old man allowed Grace to pick up his Great-grandson. Gently she cradled the child in her arms. Benton almost woke. He snuffled into her shoulder and sighed contentedly. For a moment Grace's expression softened. Both men watched her leave the room to ascend the stairs in silence.  
"How's Benton settling in?" David asked once Grace had moved out of earshot.  
Ben smiled at his friend. They were separated by a generation but they had known each other a thousand years and had passed the boundaries of polite speaking. They shared common ground and familiar experiences. Trapped along the game lines by the midnight sun. Fished for Polar Cod on the freezing ice floes. They had discussed their respective spouses' deaths, children's trials and tribulations, different religious affiliations and, quite frankly, gossiped over many a late night.  
"Benton," the old man echoed, "I don't know if anyone will touch that child's soul. He's so independent. How many babies would walk home from nursery in a raging snow storm."  
"It wasn't snowing five hours ago." David countered. He had opened the whiskey bottle and decanted a whiskey for Ben. For himself he poured another cup of tea.  
"You know fine well that isn't point."  
"Isn't it?" David was obviously in his preferred mode as an antagonist.  
"He's...," Ben Snr searched for the words, "a loner."  
"He'll make a good trapper then."  
The old man pursed his lips and continued. "Matthew wasn't like that as a child.. I mean Mary handled all that stuff with Matthew," the old man said wistfully remembering his wife, oblivious to the obvious interpretation of his words. "I was away at sea. I wasn't around much, especially during the Great War. He was a man by the time I returned. Now Robert - there was a child who thought hugs and kissing were sissy."  
David crouched by the fire watching the small smoky flames dancing their lives away. Suddenly he looked up, then he spoke slowly and clearly.  
"Bobby missed his Daddy when Matthew went to England during World War II. Grace has never been into 'hugging and kisses'. She was real distant when Matthew went galavantin' round Europe with the Red Cross." David exhaled abruptly and set down his tea. "We can discuss this until the Arctic terns come back but we won't get anywhere. Every Fraser I've ever met thinks too much.. You all study a problem from every angle until you don't know if you're coming or going. Why do you think Matthew 'came a reverend? Now there's a job for a loner who likes people but only if they don't get too close and is into stupid conversations."  
Ben Snr bristled but David didn't let him interrupt.  
"Okay so your little Benny is a loner - so what? As long as he knows he's got you, I don't see any problem. He thinks you're the bee's knees..."  
David stood up and retrieved his parka from the door.  
"Right, I'm gonna brave this storm - and I'll come and see you tomorrow \- or maybe the next day."  
Ben Snr snorted at the vague insults his best friend had fired at him. Maybe he was overreacting. The little boy was still grieving for his mum, that probably accounted for his distance. And Grace was handling him with discipline to show him where the gateposts were.  
David opened the inner door - through the outside mesh door snow swirled, gleaming in the light from the house. The darkness beyond the light was impenetrable.  
"Stay the night, David."  
"Nah, I'll be all right." David pulled up his hood. "See you around, Old Wolf."  
"Take care, Old Bear."  


~*~  


_Snugly, toastie, warm,_ were Benton's first thoughts of the day. He vaguely remembered his Mum saying those words and cuddling him when she woke him on cold winter mornings. The day had started and it was time to get up and find breakfast. Benton hadn't realised how unusual it was that his Grandmother hadn't pulled him out of bed at the crack of dawn. He tumbled out from under the mountainous quilt and padded across the rug covered floor in bare feet. Hoisting himself up on the window sill, he peered through the uneven glass. Benton was greeted by an unblemished snow scene and a blindingly blue sky.  


The stream out the back would be frozen and he'd be able to slide. Eagerly, he bounced downstairs. Grandma was in the kitchen cooking up a storm. Benton eyed the porridge with distaste but hid the expression.  
"Good mornig, Grandmother," he said politely. He had realised very quickly that she preferred him when he was polite.  
"Good morning, Benton." Grandmother responded equally politely.  
"Good Morning." Benton said correctly.  
There was incredibly a smile on her face.  
"Sit," she ordered, gesturing at the wooden chair next to the table.  
Dutifully, Benton sat. She knelt at his feet and examined his toes intently. Slightly perplexed but willing to go along with his grandmother's foibles, Benton kept still. He winced when she hit a tender spot.  
"Hurt?"  
"Yes, ma'am. I stubbed it on a big rock."  
"There is a little bruise." Grandmother acknowledged.  
She released his foot and returned to the stove. Benton twisted on seat and pulled his foot close up and studied the big toe. The smallest of bruises had formed at the edge of his toenail. Grandmother raised an eyebrow at the pseudo yoga - it wasn't suitable behaviour for the breakfast table. Benton dropped his foot and sat properly.  
"I think you should go upstairs and put some clothes on."  
"May I have breakfast, ples?"  
"After you've put some warm clothes on." Grandmother added some salt to the porridge oats.  
"Then canIgooutandplay?" Benton asked breathlessly.  
"No, today is a school day."  
Confused, Benton looked at the kitchen clock. The big hand was on twelve and the small hand was on ten - it couldn't be a school day because he wasn't at school. When the big hand was on twelve and the small hand on eight it was school time. He knew that Grandmother had told him about _time_ last week.  
"Benton, tell me what happened yesterday."  
"Miss Lambert told us the two times table and then I played in the sand pit..."  
"No, after school."  
The hot grey porridge was spooned into a large bowl and placed before him. Cream and honey were liberally drizzled over the steaming porridge.  
"I waited for Grandfather Matthew, forever," there was a slight tone of censorship, "and then I walked home."  
"Continue."  
Benton snarfed down the cream and honey - oblivious to his Grandmother's expression. If he had looked up he wouldn't have been able to interpret the expression.  
"Then monster man grabbed me and put me in his belly and brought me home." Benton finished, becoming excited. "Then I had hot chocolate and it was nice."  
"That was David, your Great-grandfather's friend. He is not a monster man. And I will thank you not you refer to him as a monster."  
Benton followed the tone more than the words but he had to, in his heart of hearts, explain to his Grandmother. "He was scary - he was a big bear."  
"Benton." Grandmother said warningly.  
Chewing at the inside of his cheek, Benton subsided.  
Grandmother was looking at him intently. Her face pinched and demanding. The heat of the oven had warmed her cheeks to a rosy red. Benton tried a tiny smile. He had no knowledge of simile and metaphor but around his Grandmother he always felt as if he was walking through an impenetrable snow storm.  
"When you finish your breakfast you will go upstairs and get washed and dressed then you will read your 'Peter and Jane by the Seaside' book."  
Grandmother turned from the table. Benton watched her normal routine. She scraped out the porridge pan placing the leftovers in a flat dish. Great-grandfather would eat it cold with his coffee in the afternoon. Shirt sleeves pushed up she began to scour out the black cast iron pan.  
"Grandmother, why am I not a' school?"  
"I don't want you getting too cold today. Your teacher understands - we will discuss the 'Peter and Jane' book in lieu of your classes."  
Benton returned to his porridge - he thought that school sounded much more fun - there was a sand pit in the covered playground. While Grandmother was occupied at the sink he dumped the porridge into the garbage. After placing the empty bowl on the draining board he slouched out of the kitchen.  
"Don't slump; walk tall." Grandmother admonished.  


~*~  


Woolly socks, dungarees and thick shirt sat on the tall dresser - his day's clothes. The fasteners on the dungaree took him a few moments. The detested 'Peter and Jane' book was sitting on the bare wooden table. Outside the sun was shining and the sky was still an inviting perfect blue.  
Benton hoisted himself up on the window sill again. Enticingly there was a track of footsteps interspersed by small, sharp holes in the snow leading up to Great-grandfather's shed. The two walking sticks that Great-grandfather needed to get around the house left distinctive tracks. Decision made, Benton snuck out of the bedroom. In stocking feet he crept back down the stairs. The wellies were neatly placed by the door with his duffel coat. A heartbeat later, Benton was down the path and outside the shed. He knocked politely on the door of great-grandfather's sanctum and waited until called in before entering.  


The old man sat hunched over a wooden table. He was deep in concentration.  
"Hiya, Ganggan."  
"Ha! You're awake." The old man set his chisel aside and casually draped an old duster cloth over whatever he was working on so diligently. Great-grandfather turned on his chair and smiled a wide open smile. He patted the tall stool set beside him.  
Benton scooted across the floor. He loved to sit on the stool like a statue on a pedestal. Benton clambered up it, as adept as a monkey and grinned at his favourite relative.  
The table was cluttered with all of great-grandfather's tools. There was a new toy in the centre of the table pushed well away from small hands. Benton looked at it intrigued. Silver liquid swirled in a ceramic bowl. Benton leaned forwards over the table and reached towards the new toy.  
"Hot!"  
Great-grandfather slapped his outstretched hand. Benton pulled back onto his chair and tucked his hands under his arms. The slap hadn't hurt but Great-grandfather hadn't smacked him before - ever  
"Oh, shush." Inexplicably, Great-grandfather looked like someone had smacked him. The old man picked up a shred of paper and held it over the silver water. Like magic the paper erupted in a sheet of flame.  
"Hot. It's molten silver." The old man waved in the direction of the squat furnace in the corner.  
"What are you doin', Ganggan?"  
"I'm making something."  
"What?"  
"A present."  
"Who for?"  
"Well, I thought that it would be a surprise but you found me out."  
"For me?" Benton piped, his eyes gleaming.  
"Yes, you cheeky monkey, for you."  
With a dramatic flourish, the old man whipped away the cloth to reveal the incisor tooth from the sperm whale they had found on the shore a month or so earlier. His brow furrowed, Benton fixed a confused, open gaze on his grandparent.  
"Toof?"  


~*~  


The old man laughed showing yellow teeth and a multitude of fillings. Inwardly chortling, he brushed the tooth off and passed it to the child. His great-grandson's expression was a picture. He wasn't disappointed when Benton finally figured out what he held in his chubby hands.  
"There's a drawing!" Benton said incredulously. His nimble fingers were tracing the carving of Old Woman Crow and Dog facing the Whale. "You made it deep."  
Ben Snr rubbed his aching knuckles and gave himself a moment to translate that comment. He guessed that his grandson meant that he had carved the image in two dimensions.  
"How?" Benton demanded.  
_Such an inquisitive child,_ the old man smiled. Benton was practically jumping up and down on his precarious perch.  
"It's called Scrimshaw. I use fine chisels and blades to carve and scrape out the picture. The secret is to keep it smooth."  
He rummaged through the different types of sandpaper he kept on his bench and showed his grandson the smoothest paper compared to the most coarse sandpaper.  
Benton's eyes were round with awe. The adulation in his eyes was flattering.  
"Pwetty," he breathed.  
"I carved the root of the tooth into a Celtic knot - it seemed appropriate." Ben Snr continued to explain, in his element. "Now that was difficult \- I had to buy some taffy from the store and make a model before I could carve it properly."  
That brought back a memory, he rooted through his draw and found a grimy bag of salt water taffy. Benton's eyes gleamed brighter. He accepted his piece with a politely whispered 'thankyoukindly'.  
"There's a hole." Benton said around a mouthful of taffy as he poked his little finger into the base of the tooth.  
"Ah, that's where the nerve was. I'm going to cap the end with silver."  
He gave the cooling silver in the mould a little shake.  
"For me?" Benton cuddled the tooth against his chest. "All for me?"  
The old man ruffled his grandson's hair. He was such a joy.  
"Yes," he said unequivocally, "I need to cap the end, though."  
Blue eyes regarded him with petulant expression. He held out his hand. Extremely reluctantly, Benton relinquished the scrimshaw. Containing a smile at the serious little soul before him, Ben Snr accepted the tooth with a grateful nod.  
They were interrupted by a precise staccato knock on the door of the workshed. Intrigued, as only Benton visited him in his sanctum sanctorum, the old man bade his visitor enter.  
Grace, her short, straight hair in disarray, stormed over the threshold.  
"There you are!"  
Benton gulped down his taffy and turned meekly on his stool. The anger emanating from the intense woman was almost palatable.  
"I told you specifically, that I wanted you to keep warm today." Grace began, "I also recall telling you to read your 'Peter and Jane' book. I definitely did not tell you to go gallivanting off with your Great-grandfather in this iceberg of a shed."  
Benton was hunched down, curling up under the onslaught. The bright effervescent child disappeared and a quieter, repressed child looked out of blue eyes.  
"Grace, you're scaring him. He just came out to see me." Ben Snr explained calmly. "He's wrapped up warmly."  


"I'll thank you not to get involved, Father." Grace snapped. "Come here, Benton Fraser Junior."  
Dutifully, Benton slipped off the stool slunk over to his Grandmother's side. The child didn't protest when she bent down and picked him up. The old man watched with misgivings as Grace left, banging the door behind her.  


~*~  
Benton Fraser Senior inhaled luxuriously on the end of his cigarette and then stubbed it out firmly in the ashtray. The wireless was droning in the background. The old man tuned out the presenter's mutterings about the uncharacteristic weather at this time of year. The old man snorted \- they should remember the winter of 1932, now that was a winter. Not this piddling excuse for a storm - this was nothing. Then he remembered the image of a small boy trudging through the storm, crying for his help and knowing that there was nothing he could do. He had no illusions; if David had not found his grandson - Benton would be dead. The child didn't understand the seriousness of his Grandfather Matthew's mistake. Nor did he understand the basis of his Grandmother's angry mood. Grace had been like a bear with a sore head all day. After another minor infraction, involving a jar of molasses and bag of flour, the child's attempt at a peace offering, Benton had been sent to bed without any supper.  
Ben Snr pocketed the cookies, his after supper treat, and announced to his son and daughter-in-law that he was having an early night. Grace rolled her eyes heavenward but didn't offer any objections.  
The stairs seemed even more difficult than normal, maybe it was the weight of the cheese sandwich tucked in his cardigan. He fumbled at the stiff door handle and managed to open Benton's bedroom door. A flash of flannel pyjamas raced across the floor and dove into bed. The old man chuckled quietly. Benton peeked out from under the patchwork quilt. An impish grin on his face, the child wriggled out from under the covers and settled himself against the headboard. The old man closed the door behind him and joined Benton on the bed, plumping the pillow behind his shoulder blades. Benton wriggled onto his lap and then raided his pockets for treats. The cookies and sandwiches disappeared as if by magic.  
"Is Grandma still angry?" Benton whispered.  
"No more so than usual."  
"I thought it would be nice like a cake." Benton explained. The gloopy mixture of black sugar cane molasses and white flour Benton had deposited in the cake tin as a surprise hadn't gone down very well with its recipient. Under his Grandmother's weighing eyes Benton had consumed a fair amount of the horrible concoction.  
"Well, next time use a recipe." Ben Snr advised.  
"Did you finish the 'scripshae'?" Benton asked changing the subject.  
"Almost," a smile escaped, "I just need to engrave the silver and then it's all yours."  
Benton hugged himself in glee; he was captivated by the scrimshaw.  
"You have to keep it somewhere special. It is very delicate."  
"Delicate?" Benton asked.  
"The figure of the old woman, Crow, is especially fragile. It can break. You'll have to wrap it in some soft material."  
The small boy shifted away from his shoulder and rooted under his blankets. Holding a secret he held out an old pillowcase. Ben Snr recognised the pillowcase - he'd know the holes in it anywhere. A couple of months ago it had been wrapped around his large pillow.  
"Why have you got my pillowcase, son?"  
"Rabbit." Benton said inexplicably.  
"What about Rabbit?" Ben Snr asked. The cuddly toy was dear to the child. Grace had taken the toy to repair it and sterilise the 'grubby, horrible, smelly excuse for a comfort toy'. The old man cast his mind back, he'd asked his daughter-in-law about the toy a couple of times and Grace had been in the process of sewing the furry ear back on.  
"Has a poorly ear." Benton explained.  
"Still?" Ben Snr asked exasperated.  
Benton cuddled the old cotton pillowcase against his chest, rubbing the soft cotton against his cheek. No cuddly toy; so use your great-grandfather's old pillowcase. The old man hugged the child tightly. Benton submitted for a moment and then squirmed uncomfortably.  
"Stowy." Benton demanded.  
The Great-grandfather inhaled introspectively and rested his head against the wall. There were many stories roaming around in his fertile imagination \- legends, myths, eddas, fairy tales.... The story choice was obvious.  
"Would you like to hear the story of Old Woman Crow and Dog catching the Whale?"  
"Yes, yes, yes!" Benton jumped up and down on his lap  


~*~  


_The sister of the Chief of the Chinooks, one of the oldest of the her Tribe, was visiting her Niece when she was asked by her brother's daughter..._  


"What's a Chinook?"  
"Sssssh, ask David when he comes 'round tomorrow."  


_to take her Dog and leave the Sea of Mists. The Mists were the realm of the Supernatural People..._  


"Who are the Supernatural people?"  
"I'm not too sure - some folk think that they are gods, others elves, or the Tuatha de Dana or maybe they are the Supernatural People."  


  
_The niece told her Aunt Crow go to the shore of the Sea of Mists... _  
__

~*~  


Ben Snr wound the story down to its end. "And they all lived happily ever after."  
"Another one?" Benton asked quietly. His eyes were huge and filled with stories.  
Given the slightest opening the old man knew that he would be manipulated into supplying tales and legends to Benton's voracious appetite all night. The old man absently kissed his Grandson's forehead and then shifted the child off his lap. Slowly, Benton curled up under the eiderdown quilt, pulling it around his neck. There was a hopeful, wheedling look in his innocent sea blue eyes. Benton Fraser Snr remained stern and resolute - his grandson had had a long day - he needed his sleep. With a slightly pouting lip, Benton mutely accepted that there would be no more stories that night.  
"Tomorrow, I'll tell you about 'Glooskapp and the Baby'."  
Ben Snr knelt painfully by the bed and kissed his Grandson's forehead again.  
"I love you, Ganggan."  
"I love you too, Benton."  
  
~*~  


Cautiously, Benton twisted the handle on his bedroom door. Standing on his tiptoes atop the empty toy box he had towed across the bedroom floor \- he could just reach the stiff handle. The door clicked noisily open. Benton was proud of himself - he had worked out how to use the box himself \- without any help. Padding in his bed socks he slipped into his great-grandfather's bedroom. The old man sat at the window in his wooden rocking chair wrapped in a quilt.  
"Ganggan?" Benton crept across the floor to his beloved relative's side. The leathery old man's eyes were closed.  
"Ganggan?" Benton tugged at the quilt - he wanted a cuddle. He had vague recollections of a bad dream.  
The old man was deathly still. Benton tried a quick shake. Slowly, like a tumbling rack of dominoes, Benton Fraser Senior slipped out of his grandson's grasp. Benton tried to stop his Great-grandfather falling but he wasn't strong enough. He grasped futilely at the wiry arm but the old man ended up in a tumbled heap on the floor.  
"Ganggan?" Benton tried again, he patted his Great-grandfather's hollow cheek, trying to wake him up. "Please, Ganggan."  
Becoming angry he gave the old man a harder shake.  


~*~  


A high pitched child's scream woke the whole household.  


~*~  


Grace tried in vain to comfort the howling child but Benton was inconsolable. He was sobbing so hard he was going to make himself sick. Matthew had laid out his father and placed the coins on his eyelids. Benton after his scream had stood silently as his Grandfather had prepared his Great-grandfather's body. After the white sheet had been draped over his relative's face he had erupted into sobs that had rapidly reached a heartrending crescendo.  
"Shush." Rocking had no effect - rather it made him cry louder. Pacing made her back hurt and didn't seem to help. After half an hour of unremitting crying, Grace had sent her husband into town for the doctor.  
Grace sat at the kitchen table. Benton writhed in her arms lashing out, alternately crying and sobbing and screaming. Her thighs were becoming quite bruised by his flailing heels.  
The kitchen door slammed open and David stood in the threshold. Benton stopped crying mid-sob and hiccuped lightly. The tableau was frozen. Then snow swirled in and gusted through the warm kitchen. The crying started anew but lower and more inward. David caught the door and gently closed it against the stormy night.  
"David," Grace began, "Father..."  
"I know." He interrupted.  
"Oh yes, you must have met the Matthew on the road."  
David didn't answer. His eyes were solely on the child sobbing quietly and endlessly in his Grandmother's arms. The Inuit Shaman crouched down on his haunches. The child was lost in his misery, crying pathetic, soul destroying sobs. Grace looked over her grandson's messy hair, her expression worried.  
"Benton, stop crying."  
The little boy didn't respond to his Grandmother's words. His red weeping eyes were stark against his too pallid skin.  
"Benton." David said sharply and caught Benton's face between his two large hands. He was hot and feverish.  
The little face screwed up and fresh tears tracked down his cheeks.  
"Benton, look at me," David ordered.  
He refused to look at him - his eyes tracked away.  
"Your Ganggan wouldn't want you to make yourself ill."  
Benton's crying was brought up sharp. The child finally focused on the Shaman. The pain in his eyes made David bow his head. No child should feel such pain and heartbreak. Instantly he looked back at Benton - he didn't want to lose the connection. He could feel Grace's gaze on him, but he only had eyes for the child. The moment was delicate - grieving was a necessary, cathartic process - twisted inward the pain would damage beyond repair.  
Benton rocked back and forth in his Grandmother's arms.  
"Your Great-grandfather will..."  
The door swung open as Doctor de Lint, a grizzled, paunchy old man let himself into the house. The doctor carried the obligatory black bag.  


"Matthew is at the church - he needed to pray." De Lint said, without preamble.  
Grace's relief at the arrival of the doctor was obvious. She shifted Benton on her lap breaking the child's concentration. David tried vainly to re-engage the child's gaze. Fresh, new tears tracked down his pale cheeks. De Lint barrelled in, brushing aside the Inuit, and crouched at Grace's feet. David watched as the doctor dealt with the child as he dealt with all his patients. De Lint was a doctor - he had been to medical school therefore he knew best. David hid his distaste as a glass syringe's clear contents were injected into a silently crying child. Benton lifted his head from his Grandmother's breast and looked with disinterest at the needle in his arm. Sedated, Benton sagged in his Grandmother's arms and simply watched - abstracted and removed from the immediacy of his grief.  
"He's young," Dr de Lint announced, "he's had a shock; he'll forgot."  
Diagnosis pronounced - no argument.  


~*~  


The flat snow covered tundra was a harsh and desolate place to those unfamiliar with its simplicity. No tree broke the landscape, only the occasional rock jutting from the snow. David bypassed a polar bear spoor, noting that it was several days old. He shifted his rifle at his shoulder and continued his smooth progress to the Fraser household. The house drapes were at half mast in honour of the deceased Benton Fraser Senior. The funeral was to be carried out at midday. A dwarfed figure stood by the small beck that ran through the Fraser's back yard. Back yard was something of a misnomer, the two storey house had no white picket fence or conifer hedge but the flat tundra at the back of the house was simply called the back yard. Benton stood looking at the slow flowing water. Eyes cast firmly downwards.  
"Hello, Benton."  
The child continued looking at the water.  
"Hello, Benton." David repeated.  
Ingrained politeness won.  
"Hello, Mr......?"  
Red rimmed eyes looked up at warm, calm, understanding eyes.  
"Orpingalik, but I'd like you to call me David."  
"Yes, sir." Benton returned to his study of the stream.  
"I've got something for you."  
David crouched at the boy's side carefully placing a duffel bag at their feet. A small flicker of interest flared in the child's eyes. Emboldened, David released the ties and slowly and dramatically opened the bag. Benton's head canted to one side as he watched the Inuit. The gesture was so similar to Ben Senior's mannerisms that David struggled to hide his own pain. The Inuit pulled out a child sized fur parka, leggings and mukluks. Benton's eyes reflected the intricate needle work and beading but the sea grey eyes were as cold and as impenetrable as the Arctic ocean and showed no emotion.  
"They're for you. I thought that if you were going to keep wandering around and standing by this stream you need some proper clothes."  
Silence.  
David withheld a sigh; he owed it to his friend to help his grandson.  
"You can wear them at the Potlatch...." He said leadingly.  
The child's natural curiosity won.  
"What's a Potlatch?"  
"It's a party where we'll celebrate your Ganggan's life. We tell stories to him, remember him, honour him and talk about your Great-grandfather. You're invited."  
"But I've got to go to the 'funnneral'." Benton objected.  
"That's okay, the Potlatch is this evening."  
Benton's brow furrowed. "Grandmother." He pointed out.  
"Ah, yes." David hid a smile. "I'll speak to your Grandmother."  
As if his words summoned her, Grace Fraser called out from the kitchen door. Benton responded immediately to her voice, toddling on his stocky legs to the door. David stuffed the clothes back in the duffel bag and followed the child. Grace was dressed in black from head to toe.  
"Good morning, David."  
David nodded in response. "I came to 'pay my respects'. And bring Benton some warm clothes for his adventures."  
"That's very kind of you." Grace said in her stilted manner. "Say thank you, Benton."  
"Thank you," he said obediently, then, "I don't want to go."  
David watched the small black cloud forming over Grace's head.  
"We've had this discussion, Benton, you are going to the funeral." Grace re-entered the kitchen, fully expecting her Grandson to tag along at her heels. Benton cast a glance over his shoulder back at the stream.  
"Now!"  
Benton's expression was pinched and white. David, The Peacemaker, couldn't help but intervene  
"I know that the funeral is frightening...." David winced.  
_Ben said that he was intelligent_.  
"...funerals are special - it's so you can say goodbye to your Ganggan. If it is too frightening why don't you take your...teddy bear...with you?"  
"Okay," Benton said simply but instead of entering the house he turned and ran to the garden shed.  
Further inside the house Grace was calling for her inattentive grandson. David hovered uncertainly on the threshold.  


~*~  


The door creaked open ominously. Benton padded across the sawdust covered floor and squirmed up his stool. Great-grandfather's presence filled the room. The scrimshaw lay on the centre of the table. Benton sat quietly for a moment then he crawled onto the table top. He turned the tooth over in his hands. Great-grandfather hadn't finished the engraving; he hadn't had time. Old woman Crow seemed to move under his fingers. A tap on the door heralded David's entrance. Benton looked at the man, who to his young eyes was filled with old stories and strange memories and protectively clutched the scrimshaw to his chest.  


"Your Grandmother is calling." Monster man said. "Come on."  
Conditioned to obey, Benton slipped off the table and clambered down the stool. He gave the Inuit a wide berth as he slipped through the door.  
"Is Bobby - your Daddy coming?"  
"No - Daddy's a Mountie. Daddy can't come. He's busy."  
Benton ran ahead, knowing that the monster man was coming behind him. The monster man was Ganggan's friend but he was still a bit scary. He barely made it into the house before Grandmother came looking for him again.  
"There you are."  
Grandmother stood at the top of the stairs. She had her coat on; it was time to go.  
"What have you got?"  
Grandmother coasted down the stairs her long skirt trailing on the treads.  
"It's called scrim..scrimshaw...Great-grandfather made it for me."  
"Let me see."  
Reluctantly, Benton gave the tooth to his guardian. Worried, he watched his Grandmother idly finger the intricate ivory; Ganggan had said that the carvings were delicate. He knew what was going to happen next.  
"Your Great-grandfather never mentioned this to me."  
"Ganggan made it for me." Benton sucked at his bottom lip.  
"Maybe so - maybe not. You're too young to appreciate this. We'll put it somewhere safe."  
Benton dogged his Grandmother's heels as she carried the scrimshaw into the sitting room. The sitting room was sacrosanct and he was never allowed in on his own. The room was almost a museum; filled with memorabilia from his grandparents' many travels. Chinese vases and jade filled one ornamental dresser. The scrimshaw was placed on the top shelf with an I-Ching set. Benton looked sullenly up at the tip of the tooth peaking over the shelf.  
"What's that face for?"  
Grandmother caught his hand and hauled him from the room. Benton dug his heels in.  
"It's my toof. I want it."  
"I want - never gets." Grandmother declaimed. "You're too young. If you continue to misbehave, I'll give you a good smack."  
"I want..."  
The sharp smack on his thigh brought him up short. Tears welled in Benton's eyes but he didn't let them fall.  
"This is inappropriate behaviour on the day of your Great-grandfather's funeral. If your father was here he'd be very disappointed in you."  
Benton hung his head in shame.  


~*~  


It was very confusing.  
They had walked, him and Grandmother, hand in hand to the church. The big hall had been filled with lots of people all wearing black. Grandmother had taken him to the front pew and they had prayed for a long time. Then Grandfather dressed in his special black suit and white collar had stood on his pedestal and spoken about Benton Alexander McLachlan Fraser. Next, the whole congregation had trooped to the garden filled with stones at the back of the church. Four men had carried a box. Grandmother had held his hand so hard it had hurt. Then Benton figured out what was happening.  
_Ganggan's in the box_  
He had started crying and Grandmother hadn't been very pleased with him.  
Now he sat on his school teacher's knee. Miss Lambert had been at the funeral and she had brought him to his classroom when he had started crying. He rubbed his snotty nose and sniffed miserably.  
"Ganggan's in a box." He caught the end of Miss Lambert's brown hair and twisted it in-between his fingers.  
"Sssssh." The teacher soothed. "No, no, not really."  
Gently, she disengaged his tangling grasp from her hair and hugged him closely. Benton sat unmoving in her arms.  
"Grandfather said he was."  
Miss Lambert held him for the longest time then whispered. "The important part of your Ganggan is not in the box."  
Benton considered her words he didn't really understand that either - it sounded like something that Great- grandfather would say, though. He grabbed her long hair again and held it tightly.  
"Why isn't he in heaven? Daddy said Mummy had gone to Heaven."  
Miss Lambert's mouth opened in a startled 'o' and then she hurried to reassure him.  
"Your Ganggan is in Heaven - it's just..."  
"I'll take him home now, Miss Lambert." Grandmother's voice rang through the room.  
Benton turned on his teacher's lap and the strand of her hair, on which he was now sucking, fell out of his mouth. Grandmother stood over them holding out her hand. Obediently, Benton joined his guardian.  
"I wonder if I... we can talk to Benton, Mrs Fraser?" Miss Lambert began.  
"He's just confused." Grandmother said authoritatively. "Father kept harping on about Davy Jones' Locker and no doubt the child was expecting something completely different from a burial."  
"Just because he is a child doesn't mean you can't explain things to him."  
"Well, thank you, Miss Lambert. We'll be going now - thank you for your help." Grandmother smiled thinly.  
As he was towed out the door, Benton looked back to see Miss Lambert looking at him with the saddest expression on her face. Benton trailed along at his Grandmother's side back home. Grandmother was very quiet, so he had time to think. He vaguely remembered Great-grandfather saying something about old sailors going to Davy Jones' Locker when they died - so that meant that Ganggan was at the bottom of the ocean.  


It was all very confusing.  


~*~  


Benton curled up on the window sill. He had been sent to his room, once again, for misbehaving. All of Grandmother and Grandfather's friends had been in the house when they had returned from the school. Everybody was sitting around eating little sandwiches talking in quiet voices. He had tried to ask Grandmother where Ganggan was then he had started crying again much to his Grandmother's dismay because he had to be a brave little man. Eventually he had been sent to bed.  
Benton pulled himself up onto his knees and peered out into the night. The night was clear and cloudless and the moon high in the sky showered the blanket of snow with stars. A baying howl of a wolf rolled across the tundra made him feel even more lonely. The lights of the town glittered in the distance.  
_*You have disgraced your Great-grandfather carrying on like that....*_  
Grandmother's words burned his ears. He knew that he hadn't behaved very well but he was _sad._  
Monster man said that there was another funeral tonight. Resolve crystallised in the boy. He would go to the Potlatch and as Daddy said 'do the right thing' and as Grandmother said 'behave properly'. The closed bedroom door yielded to the toy box trick. Grandmother and Grandfather were in bed as all the other doors off the landing were closed. He crept downstairs. The duffel bag of Inuit clothes sat at the bottom of the stairs where David had left them. Benton shrugged the leggings over his pyjamas and the heavy, furry mukluks over his bed socks. The parka took some struggling but eventually he was dressed as an Inuit. He paused at the door and then reversed his direction. Against all instructions he entered the sitting room.  
The scrimshaw wasn't on the shelf.  
Carefully, he crept around the room. He didn't want to break anything. Grandmother had impressed upon him how important the ornaments in the room were to Grandfather and herself. The scrimshaw sat on Grandfather's desk. Benton stretched on his tiptoes and reclaimed what his Great-grandfather had given him and him alone.  
A heartbeat later he was out the house and running down the track. Behind him the open door swung back and forth.  


~*~  


His throat burned in the crisp cold air and the blood sang in his veins. He kept running through the magic night. The sky was a great dome, full of stars. The sharp snow broke beneath his feet with an audible snick that echoed across the landscape. The constellation of the Plough showed him the way to the town when the track dipped beneath the snow piled high on either side. He could hear his Great-grandfather, in his head, pointing out the constellations as he had during the nights when Benton sat on his Great-grandfather's lap after waking from nightmares. Inevitably, he tripped. For a moment he lay on his stomach and then he rolled onto his bottom. The iced snow had cut his palms. Then he realised the scrimshaw wasn't in his hands.  
_No, no, no, I'm sorry, Ganggan, I dropped the Scrimshaw._ He thought plaintively.  
The tooth had skidded and lay on top of a frozen puddle. Oblivious to his bleeding hands he picked up the tooth. The carving was intact. Benton hugged it against his chest and cried his relief. Ganggan wouldn't be very happy with him if he broke the scrimshaw.  
Slower now, he pulled himself to his knees then his feet and began to slog forwards.  
A curious coughing filled his ears. Benton stopped dead in his tracks. On the road ahead stood the largest bear he had ever seen. The polar bear was neatly camouflaged against the white snow. On all fours it stood, casting its head from side to side, sniffing the air. The bear coughed deep in his throat.  
_*Benton, keep still*_  
Benton froze.  
Still casting, the bear moved forwards. The temptation to run was almost irresistible. The bear came closer. The coughing became louder, rhythmic like drum beats. Another cough joined the song. At the top of the piled snow another larger white bear stood on its hind legs. As high as the night sky the second bear bellowed a challenge. The smaller bear raised itself upright.  
Benton made himself as small as possible - curling up into a tiny little ball.  
Challenge after challenge echoed across the tundra. Then the challenged bear dropped onto all legs and ponderously clambered off the track.  
The large bear let out one last ululating cry then David pushed back his hood and dropped down to Benton's side.  
"Hello." David said easily. "I see that you're wearing sensible clothes this time. Are you coming to the Potlatch?"  
Benton nodded numbly. Distantly he knew that he wanted to run back to his room but he watched himself grip David's outstretched hand and walk along at his side. He could hear David carrying out a conversation but it didn't seem to be aimed at him. He felt overloaded - too much too soon. Slowly he was realising that David was his Great- grandfather's best friend as such he had to trust the strange monster man. The strange monster man who had just saved him for the second time.  


"Are you a bear?"  
David left his conversation with the voice that Benton couldn't hear.  
"I know what it is like to be a bear."  
Benton furrowed his brow; that really didn't make much sense.  


~*~  


David smiled down at the adventurous little soul. He felt deep down that Benton Fraser Junior was going to have an interesting life. He shortened his long stride to accommodate the boy's half skipping walk. The small hand felt somehow right enfolded in his larger hand. Benton was watching him with a curious weighing expression as he skipped along at his side.  
"Ganggan said that he was going to go to Davy Jones' Locker."  
There was a hollow echo behind those simple words that told David that he would have to tread very carefully.  
"I've heard of Davy Jones' Locker." He said neutrally, searching for some idea of his next step.  
"Ganggan's not in Heaven - he's at the bottom of the sea." Benton sniffed. "Mummy's in Heaven."  
_Oh, dear_ , David thought. He stopped dead in his tracks and squatted before the child. There was a rebellious gleam in little blue eyes; the child was confused and now he was starting to get angry.  
"Do you know what a spirit is?" David shook his head. "Do you know what a soul is?"  
Benton gave the question intense consideration, then, "no."  
_Let's see Protestant, Christian ethic,_ he allowed no sign of his indecision to show on his face, _got to phrase this so he will understand. Great Spirit, I need your help._  
"When you're very ill or very old your body," he emphasised, "dies - it stops working. Your body is buried in a box called a coffin or your body is wrapped in a cloth and put into Davy Jones' Locker."  
"Ganggan not in Davy Jones' Locker, then?"  
"No, your Great-grandfather's body was buried. But a special part of him called his 'soul' went to Heaven to be with your Mummy."  
"Ganggan with Mummy." Benton said hopefully, latching on to the only thing he really wanted to hear.  
"Yes."  
The anger left Benton's eyes and David breathed a small sigh of relief. For a fraction of a second he had the distinct impression of himself talking to little Benton down the years. A future loomed where he spent many an hour discussing every topic under the sun with his best friend's beloved grandson. He looked forwards to the intelligent man Benton would grow into.  
_We'll discuss comparative religions and different interpretations of the afterlife when he's older_  
"Still sad." Benton said quietly.  
"Well, that's why we're going to the Potlatch."  
Smoothly, David stood up and together they restarted their walk to the town. As they approached the town centre the beat of drums welcomed them. The town hall was awash with light.  
"We're having a Potlatch in the _qargi_ for your Great-grandfather." David said deliberately.  
Benton responded as he expected.  
"What's a...," he stumbled over the unfamiliar word, " _qargi_?"  
"Family gathering place." David explained.  
Many happy faces greeted the pair as they entered the warm, colourful celebration of Ben Senior's life. Warmth filled the room from the peat fire kindling at the far end of the hall. Benton's eyes reflected the painted motifs on the walls. A symbolic battle with a whale covered the east wall. Slowly he took in the trestle tables bowed with food, the moss and snow berries decorating the wooden beams and the people.  
A brown faced woman crossed the dance floor.  
" _Angatquq,_ I see you found the guest of honour."  
Benton smiled hesitatingly up at the woman.  
"Oh, dear - you've hurt your hands."  
David released his ward's hand allowing his brother's wife to shepherd the boy to a low bench.  
"Can you let me have the tooth?" Sarah asked as she crouched down to the child's level.  
Benton shook his head as he clutched the scrimshaw.  
Sarah smiled easily and under her directions Benton deposited the scrimshaw in the embroidery covered front pocket of his parka. He didn't protest as she cleaned the shallow scrapes and then smeared whale blubber over his palms. Benton sniffed the fat and then screwed up his nose.  
She laughed and then ruffled his hair.  
Benton watched her with wide, curious blue eyes when she left to speak with her husband.  
"That's the _umialik_ \- head of the family. Sarah is his primary wife so she is _nuliaqpak_." David explained.  
"She called you _Anga..._ "  
" _Angatquq_ \- it means shaman."  
"What's a shaman?"  
"I'm the religious leader of the community."  
Benton digested the big words. "Like Grandfather." He concluded.  
"Yep, like your Grandfather."  
Benton seemed content with that explanation. And he appeared equally content to watch the women of the qargi begin to start dancing in the centre of the hall. The call of _auu yah iah_ drew the women to the floor. A single drum beat filled the room then the accompaniment of tambourine and chanting joined the beat. They didn't move their feet but rocked rhythmically twisting and waving their hands to the beat of the men's drumming. The dancing came to an end and the celebration moved onto a wrestling competition between the younger men as the older ones gambled on the outcome. Clothes were shrugged off as the room warmed. During a lull in the competitions a young man stood and declaimed:  


_Wild Caribou, land louse, long-legs,  
With the great ears,  
And the rough hairs on you neck,  
Flee not from me.  
Here I bring skins for soles,  
Here I bring moss for wicks,  
Just come gladly  
Hither to me, hither to me._ (1)  


The change in pace heralded the end of the wrestling. The tables of food were opened and drink flowed freely. Benton moved easily through the crowd tasting all the offerings, some times liking them, some times putting the tasted piece of meat back on the tray. David watched him with amusement. Sarah took the boy under her wing and set him at her side. The Shaman waited until most people had a plate of food and then he stood before the crowd.  
"We all know why we're here. Ben Fraser died the day before yesterday and we want to give him a good send off. It's what Ben would have wanted."  
Heads nodded in response. David looked at all his friends and relatives joined together in grief. Miss Lambert lifted her glass in a silent toast. The skipper of Ben's last boat was sobbing quietly into his whiskey glass. Akuvaaq, David's second cousin, was trying to comfort the Scottish skipper.  
"On the day Ben died we got a new member of the family." David gestured to his second wife, Qina.  
Qina stood, with their daughter in her arms. In the pregnant silence, which descended, she walked along the hall to little Benton.  
"This is Mary, we've named her after your Great-grandmother." Qina said.  
Then she deposited the baby on Benton's lap. Laughter echoed through the hall at Benton's shocked expression.  
"You have to hold her carefully." She positioned Benton's arms so he supported Mary's head.  
Benton smiled openly. He appeared entranced by the baby. Qina patted his cheek and with a glance which spoke volumes - directed at her sister-in-law \- left the baby in Benton's care and joined her husband.  
"It is the woman's position to tell the stories." She pulled her story knife from the depths of her sweater and held out the clothespin sized ivory storyknife for the crowd. "I have a storyknife but no snow on which to tell my story so you will have to listen and picture my tale..."  


_The Origin of Light.  
There was only darkness; there was no light. A woman lived by the edge of the sea. One day she was scraping snow to get some water and she saw a feather floating towards her. She opened her mouth and swallowed the feather. Then she was pregnant.  
She had a baby. The baby had a raven's bill for a mouth so she called the baby Tulugaak which means Raven. She had no toys for the baby but the baby coveted his Grandfather's leather bladder which was blown up like a balloon.His mother didn't want to give him his Grandfather's leather bladder as she knew the man would become angry. But he cried and cried and eventually she gave in to the child's demands. Tulugaak played with the bladder for a moment but then he broke the new toy. And the first dawn broke. There was light in the world and darkness, too.  
The woman's father came home that night he was indeed very angry. And when the light returned Tutugaak had disappeared._ (2)  


Benton looked at the baby girl on his lap as the story washed over him. Mary's eyes opened and she yawned sleepily up at him. Benton thought she was fascinating - she was so small. The brown irises and pupils meshed making her eyes impossibly dark. She seemed quite content to lie on his lap and burble. He didn't understand the story - Ganggan had said that all stories had meanings - he didn't understand that either. Qina finished her story and everybody stamped their feet and clapped startling the baby. Before the fright could become a full fledged wail, the mother had retrieved her daughter and was soothing her with a feed. Benton watched intrigued.  
"Come on, Benton, it's your turn." David stood over him and held out his hand.  
The hall was silent as Benton moved to the centre of the hall with David.  
"This is Ben's Great-grandson and his namesake. I think he has something to say."  
Wide eyed, Benton looked at the throng of people. He saw Miss Lambert and waved - she waved back and everybody laughed. Benton grinned in response. At the back of the hall the door opened and Grandmother slipped inside. Benton froze.  
Above him, David whispered. "It's okay - say what you have to say."  
David's hand squeezed his.  
"I have a story, too." Benton announced, with his free hand he pulled out the scrimshaw from his front pouch. "Ganggan told it to me. Crow is the old woman on the toof and she has a magic dog - he's on the toof, as well. Crow was a Chinook?"  
He looked up at David for confirmation \- who nodded encouragingly. "The Chinook are one of the Native American tribes."  
"Okay," Benton's expression was determined - he wanted to do this properly. "Crow was wif her niece in the magic land of the suuper...supper..."  
"Supernatural people." David supplied.  
"Thank you kindly. Crow...  


_had to leave the land of the Supernatural People - the Sea of Mists. Crow's niece lived with the supernatural people and they had given her a magical dog. The niece in turn gave the dog to her Aunt when the time came for her Aunt to leave the Sea of Mists. Crow had to return because her people were hungry. Crow prepared her canoe for the crossing of the Sea of Mists. The Crow wished her niece well and prepared to sail away in her flimsy, bark canoe. As the canoe bobbed in the water, Crow's niece told Crow that when she reached Land of Men she had to tell Dog: 'catch a Whale'.  
_

The magical Dog sat in the stern watching the Mists give way to reveal the mortal World. As they broached the clouds, waves moved beneath the canoe and a Whale's tail broke the cold, grey water.  
"Catch a Whale." Crow called out.  
With an almighty bite, Dog clenched the Whale's tail in its jaws. The tail splashed and churned in the water. The flimsy canoe bucked and the bark tore.  
The Crow took fright and told Dog to free the Whale. As the Whale escaped, a wave caught the bark canoe and pushed it far and away, carrying the vessel to the shingle shore of the Land of the Chinooks.  
The Dog was no longer in the canoe.  
Dog had disappeared. Crow wondered what to do. She journeyed to the forest and gathered roots from the trees and bushes - gifts to the Supernatural People. Most especially she gathered the roots she knew that the Immortals coveted. For her niece she collected a small basket of Potentilla roots. Old Crow returned across the water to the Land of the Supernatural People. The tall, beautiful Immortals descended on the roots and herbs - so beloved of them - for their magical properties. Crow returned to her niece's lodge and found the large white Dog, with the yellow eyes, curled up at her niece's feet. The young woman accepted the Potenilla roots and explained that she should have called to the Dog whilst approaching the shore not while sailing in mid-ocean. Crow took the Dog back to the canoe and once again sailed across the churning waters. As the Land of Men came into sight she called out to the Dog: "Catch a Whale."  
Dog refused to move - she cajoled the magical animal - but Dog refused to move. She took a handful of water and cast it onto the Dog. He started up as if burned and leaped into the water. A Whale's tail splashed and then a giant carcass floated to the surface. The tide carried the Whale with the Dog to the shore. Crow ran to the village and told her people of their great, good fortune.  
And the People of the Chinook, as they had food and oil and skin and bone, survived the next long, hard Winter. (3)  


His audience clapped and hooted their pleasure when he finished. Benton made a little bow and then allowed David to lead him to his Grandmother who still stood close to the entrance. Around them the party started anew. Grandmother had crossed her arms over her chest and that usually meant and that he was in trouble.  
"Grace."  
"David." Grandmother nodded. "And what do you have to say for yourself, young man?"  
"Ganggan wanted me to come - I had to do it properly." Benton said seriously.  
"Really?" Grandmother's expression was unreadable.  
"Uh huh, I didn't do it right at the 'funnneral'."  
"Funeral." Grandmother corrected absently. "And here was I thinking that you were too young for a Potlatch. I, definitely, think you were too young for a burial."  
"Told you." David said irrepressibly.  
Grandmother glared at David, then returned her attention to Benton.  
"And how did you get here Benton Fraser?"  
"Walked," he admitted, head bowed.  
"When you didn't come," David butted in, "I guessed that you hadn't found a baby sitter - so I walked over to your place to see if I could convince you all to come - I found Benton on the road."  
Benton watched the two adults sparring as if they were competitors in a game of table tennis. Daddy had impressed on him to do the 'right thing'. He wasn't entirely sure what the 'right thing' entailed but it seemed to revolve around being polite and not angering Grandmother and most definitely not lying. He didn't seem to be very good at not annoying Grandmother. The 'right thing' and 'behaving properly' had brought him to the Potlatch. He had told Great-grandfather's story to the audience of many unfamiliar faces and he felt better.  
"And it never occurred to you to bring him home?" Grandmother said with a slight twist of her lips.  
David smiled showing even white teeth. "No."  
Grandmother snorted once and then a smile escaped. Open mouthed, Benton looked up at his guardian - he didn't quite believe it - but it sounded like he wasn't going to be smacked. Grandmother reached down to take his free hand - David still held the other - and she saw the scrimshaw. David's hand gave his another reassuring squeeze.  
"Great-grandfather told you the story when he gave you the scrimshaw, did he?" Grandmother asked.  
Benton nodded emphatically.  
"Well, I suppose you better look after it then."  
Benton dropped the ivory carving in his parka pocket and smiled luminously up at his guardian. Then with one hand firmly clasped in David's warm brown hand and the other in his Grandmother's they turned to rejoin the party.  


_fin_  


Author Note:  


Hi - I wanted to explore Fraser's formative years so I did some research in preparation for this story. Unfortunately there isn't a great deal of Inuit ethnography in a Scottish University Library. So while I've put in as much as possible from the books and web-pages that I found I also weaved in a little poetic licence to fill in the gaps. So any errors are completely and utterly my own and not the authors of the references.  


I'd like to thank Sher - we've had quite a bit of fun over the last few months passing ideas back and forth via e-mail mainly about Native American cultures... I nicked the storyknife idea from her - hilt and all - she had to explain to me what a clothespin was, though .  


references:  


(1) 'Caribou Magic' sung by Orpingalik, legendary Inuit Shaman -  
source - http://ics.soe.umich.edu/JourneyNorth/Bites/March15.html  


(2) 'The Origin of Light' an Alaskan Myth from the Inuit, from Laura Thorpe and her class in Alaska  
source - http://www.ozemail.com.au:80/~reed/global/alasklit.html  


(3) Spence, L. (1914) North American Indians - Myths and Legends. George Harrap  & Co. Ltd. London.  


additional references:  


http://spirit.lib.uconn.edu:80/...ralViability/Inupiat/1800s.html  


Jenness, D. (1932). The Indians of Canada. University of Toronto Press.  


* * *

  



End file.
